A Bite of Bronte
by wickedwanton
Summary: A response to letsdrawsherlock's reinterpreting famous works challenge. A pivotal scene from Wuthering Heights as redone with Sherlock's cast. Swapping sociopaths (What I wouldn't give to see BC really play the part! Or any of them, now that I think of it!) A one-off so I don't get Bronted to death!


"There's a message for you, Mrs. Lestrade." I carefully put the paper in the hand she had rested on her knee. "I need you to read it right now because it needs a response." She nodded without ever looking my way. "It's very short. Read it now." She pulled her hand away, letting the paper fall. I returned it to her, waiting for her to at least look at it, recognize the handwriting. It took so long that I finally added "It's from Sherlock."

Her fingers twitched, a veiled spark in her eye as she tried to gather her thoughts. She looked over the message, sighing at the signature. She must not have really read it because she wouldn't give me an answer; she just pointed at the name, looking both pained and joyful.

"He wants to see you." Maybe her illness kept the words on paper from making sense. "He's probably in the back garden by now. Freak never has learned how to wait."

I could see their terrier sunning himself on the patio suddenly leap up, ears forward, reacting to a visitor. A small yip and he settled in again, approving the invasion. Mrs. Lestrade was listening closely, hearing the footfall before it came. Leaving the doors open was too much temptation for Sherlock, although locks alone would never have kept him out. Molly looked toward her bedroom door, pulling him to her in her mind. Doors were banging, but he found his way before I could open the right one. In a flash he was knelt by her side, his arms wrapped around her.

Neither of them spoke as they held each other tightly. I'm sure Sherlock kissed her more in those minutes than he'd ever kissed anyone in his life. She never pulled away and he stayed too close to see her face clearly. He knew from the moment he had seen her, just like I had. Molly wasn't going to get better. Death was moving in.

"Molly! How could you do this?" His voice was cracking. I had never expected tears, and none came, but his eyes burned so strongly I thought they must have been seared away.

"Do what?" Molly said, leaning away and meeting his eyes with a blaze of her own, her moods as unsettled as her spirit. "You and Greg broke my heart, Sherlock! Then you both come crying to me to make you feel better about it? No. I've no sympathy at all for either of you. You've killed me and think you've gotten stronger because of it. So strong now. How long will you go on when I'm gone?"

Sherlock had knelt beside her chair, but as he tried to stand, she wove her hand in his hair, keeping him near.

"I want to keep you close until we're both dead!" she hissed. "I've suffered and you never noticed! Why should I care now? How long until you forget me? Will you finally be happy when I've gone? Will you smirk at my graveside, tell people 'There lays Molly Hooper. She loved me long ago, and it was a distraction to lose her, but it's past. I've had others since, more important than she was and when I die, I won't be happy to join her; I'll be sorry to miss them.' Will you, Sherlock?"

"Don't. I'm already as mad as you." He wrenched his head free, ground his teeth.

It was almost surreal to witness. Molly had always been so gentle, forgiving, yet now the only color in her face was vindictiveness. Her lips were taut, her eyes wild, and she still held some of his hair locked in her tight fingers. He was pushing up with one hand, his other grasping her arm so strongly that when he let her go, I could see the beginning of bruises, blue against her deathly pallor.

"How you must hate me." He hissed venomously. "You think you can cut me any deeper? You think you can somehow poison me, make the wound grow after you've gone? You know I didn't kill you, Molly, and you know I can't ever forget you! Isn't it enough for you that while you're at peace, you'll have left me here alone?"

"I won't be at peace!" Molly moaned, trembling with the violent and uneven throbbing of her heart. The strain was visible in her throat and she said nothing until the paroxysm passed. She continued, gentler-

"I don't want you to suffer any more than I have, Sherlock, I just don't ever want to be away from you. If anything I've ever done hurts you in the future, I'll feel it wherever I am. Please, forgive me. Come back here, please. You've never hurt me, not really. Don't be angry with me. That would be a worse memory than anything I could say. Please come back."

Sherlock stood at the back of her chair, leaning forward but not so far that she could see his unguarded face. She moved, trying to look at him, but he wouldn't allow it. Turning abruptly, he walked to the window and stood silent, his back to us. Mrs. Lestrade followed every movement with her eyes, her face hardening by the moment. She spoke to me, indignant and disappointed.

"See? He won't bend his stiff neck for even a moment to keep me out of the grave. That's how I'm cared for! Never mind. That is not my Sherlock. I will love mine yet, and take him with me in my soul." She laughed brokenly. "The worst part is my ruined body after all. I'm so tired of being trapped here. I want to escape into whatever comes next. I've seen glimpses, had hopes, but now I want to be in it, with it. You think you're better off, healthy and strong here, pitying me, but that's backwards. Soon I'll be free, beyond, above." She whispered to herself "I thought Sherlock wanted to be near me. So sullen now. Sherlock, please-"

She pushed herself up by the arms of her chair, eager to reach him. Her voice had broken his calm, and he turned to look at her, desperate. His eyes flashed, wide and wet, and his breath heaved. They held apart for a moment, and then she seemed to leap toward him. He caught her in an embrace I thought she would die in, her eyes unfocused and her jaw slack. He drew her with him into the nearest seat and when I came close to check on her, he growled, gnashing at me, gathering her to him with greedy jealousy. He didn't seem truly human.

After several long minutes where I wondered if she'd ever wake up, she reached up to clasp his neck. She held her cheek to his as he drew her closer, moving frantically. He was speaking wildly-

"Molly, you've been so cruel, cruel and false. How could you despise me so much? Why did you betray your own heart, Molly? I've no pity for you. You've killed yourself. You can kiss me and weep; I'll kiss you and cry, but its poison. You say you love me, but then how could you leave me? How could you leave me for that shadow you felt for Lestrade? Lies, misery, degradation, death, nothing anyone or anything could have inflicted on us could have parted us. You, of your own free will, did it. I didn't break your heart; you did, and you broke mine with it. You think I'm strong, but how do I live if my soul is in the grave?"

"Don't! Please don't!" Molly sobbed. "I'm already dying for it! You left me too, but I forgave you! Can't you forgive me?"

He kissed her then, his eyes closed tight to shut out her pallid skin, her wasted face. "It's so hard. I forgive what you've done to me. I love my murderer, but how can I love yours?"

They went quiet then, pressed together, faces washed in tears. It seemed even Sherlock Holmes could weep on an event like this.

I could hear the church bell chiming down the road. "Service is over. Mr. Lestrade will get home in minutes."

Sherlock cursed and pulled an unmoving Molly closer.

I saw Mr. Lestrade open the gate to the back garden, enjoying the afternoon, soft as summer.

"He's here!" I grimaced. "Sherlock, you have to go! You can get down the stairs and out the front door unseen! Stay in the side yard until he's inside!"

"I have to go, Molly." Sherlock tried to ease out of her embrace. "I'll see you again before you sleep. I'll be right outside your window."

"No, please, Sherlock!" She held on with what little strength she had.

"Just for an hour." He pled.

"Not for a moment."

"I have to. Lestrade will be up in a minute." He was trying to stand up but she clung gasping, mad resolve in her face.

"No!" She cried. "No, don't go! Greg won't hurt us, Sherlock! I'm dying now! Oh, god, Sherlock! I'm dying now!"

Sherlock sunk back into the seat, drawing her close again. "Hush. Hush, Molly, I'll stay. If he shoots me, it would be a blessing."

They were inseparable but I could hear my boss coming up the stairs. I was appalled, sweating.

"Are you going to listen to her?" I was frantic. "She's delirious! You'll ruin her and she can't defend herself! Get up, damn it! This is by far the worst thing you've ever done!"

I cried out and Mr. Lestrade hastened in. I was in a panic, but relieved to see Molly's arms had fallen away from the intruder, her head hung limply.

"Fainted or dead." I thought. "Better that she be dead than an ongoing burden, making everyone around her so miserable."

Greg leapt at the intruder, scarlet in anger. He stopped only when Sherlock pressed her unmoving body into his arms.

"Help her, Lestrade. Please help her, and then you can settle with me!"

Sherlock went downstairs and waited in the living room. Mr. Lestrade and I tried many things, finally getting some level of consciousness from her, but not truly waking her. She sighed, moaned, but didn't seem to recognize anyone. Greg was so worried; he seemed to forget the man downstairs. I didn't. At the first chance, I went down, ordering him out. I told him Molly was better and I'd meet with him in the morning.

"I'll go outside" he nodded. "But I'll stay in the back garden. Keep your word and meet with me or I'll arrange another visit without you."

He took a long look up the stairway, listening, and then took his luckless presence out of the house.


End file.
